


magic and electricity

by everythingislove (orphan_account)



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Magic Isak Valtersen, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 23:58:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16464788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/everythingislove
Summary: “I’m Isak,” Isak says without properly thinking, then promptly realizes that it’s not an answer. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “This is my store.”“Good,” the man nods. He steps forward, offering his hand out to Isak. “I’m Even, and I was hoping that you might be able to brew something for me?”Or: Isak runs an apothecary, and Even is his handsome new customer.





	magic and electricity

**Author's Note:**

> so,,, hi. in all honesty, i wasn’t planning to post this, and i’m almost positive that it will be the last skam fic i write. this is probably lackluster, but that said, i started writing this months ago, and i couldn’t bring myself to let it sit in my drafts. consider this my unofficial farewell to the evak universe. thank you to everyone who has supported me, and i hope you enjoy <3
> 
> (p.s. happy halloween!!!!)

The cauldron has been in the Valtersen family for generations, always passed down to the first born son. It’s cast iron, charmed to be immune to typical wear-and-tear, and has their family crest engraved on both sides. For hundreds of years, the cauldron has been a symbol of all that their family stands for—power, superiority, greatness. 

It’s also the bane of Isak’s fucking existence.

For all that Isak prides himself on his potion skills, (he’s the youngest Potions Master in Norway thank you very much), something always seems to be going wrong when he brews—and it’s to no fault of his own. He blames his father, who insisted on magically bonding him to a cauldron he’s entirely incompatible with before Isak had the vocabulary and ability to tell him so. Unfortunately, because the bonding  _ did _ happen, he is stuck with the blasted thing. 

It’s being especially difficult today, spewing and shaking with every ingredient he adds to his brew. There’s potion all over the floor, lime green and frothy, and some of it has burnt the soles of his shoes. 

As usual, Isak ignores those warnings. He has a job to do, and just because the cauldron is throwing another hissy fit doesn’t mean he can push off his responsibilities. If he did, his business would go right down the drain, and he rather likes his apothecary.

Inevitably, the cauldron doesn’t like this at all. As Isak goes to add three drops of fawn saliva—humanely taken, of course—it gives a furious rumble. Then, before he even has a chance to stumble back, it explodes.

Potion comes spewing out like a volcano erupting, followed by a burst of blinding light that has him squeezing his eyes shut. When the noise stops, Isak peeks one eye open, taking in the disastrous results around him. There’s potion  _ all over  _ the room now, coating the jars of ingredients lined up on the counter and staining a large blob on the ceiling, but thankfully, he’s been spared from that at least.

Then he sniffs, and the nauseating smell of burnt hair and flesh hits him. He stumbles toward the mirror hanging above the sink, and is startled to see the state of himself.

His hair is singed at the tips, still smoking, and sticking up in various directions. There’s smears of charred  _ something  _ on his cheeks and down his neck, along with a residual black powder dusting his white t-shirt. 

The wards set off the bells hanging in the doorway of his work room, alerting him that someone has just entered the store. Most likely it’s another muggle customer that wants a miracle lotion to get rid of wrinkles, or stretch marks, or whatever other imperfection their vain minds are focused on. They seem to think he wants to be their plastic surgeon, when all he wants is to brew.

If he could make a decent living by simply brewing, he would. The store is a means to an end; a way to be sure he has money for rent and food on the table each month. 

With a grumble, Isak shoves a beanie onto his head, and shrugs back into his robes. He smells charred, but there’s little that can be done about that. (Well, he supposes he  _ could _ cast a quick freshening spell, but he’s been up since dawn brewing, and he’s exhausted.)

He starts toward the front of the store, shoes squelching unpleasantly. Some of the brew must have overflowed again without his knowledge, because when he glances over his shoulder, he finds the green, sludge-like material on the floor behind him. He’ll clean it later. Maybe. Or maybe he’ll just let it dry and wait until the cleaner comes at the end of the week.

Shaking his head, he opens the door which connects his workspace to the storefront. It’s charmed so that no one but him can enter without permission, a precaution he learned was necessary after an overzealous child had snuck back and nearly taken a potion for older, male wizards.  _ That  _ was a near disaster he never wanted to risk again.

He’s anticipating a customer of his regular variety with bleach blonde hair, frozen features from too much Botox, and an unnaturally small waist, which is why he stumbles over his robes when he catches sight of the actual customer.

For one, it’s a man. And it’s not as though Isak never gets men in his store, but he can safely say that he’s never had a man  _ this handsome  _ in his store before. The man standing in front of him is all chiseled cheeks, with a jawline that could cut diamonds. His eyes are stunning, too—glinting from the fairy lights Eskild insisted upon hanging a few months back, and accentuated by long lashes. Isak doesn’t think he could get any more attractive. 

Then he smiles, and Isak’s knees feel wobbly all of a sudden.

“Halla,” the man says. His voice sounds like sugar, spice, and everything nice. “Are you the owner?”

“I’m Isak,” Isak says without properly thinking, then promptly realizes that it’s not an answer. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “This is my store.”

“Good,” the man nods. He steps forward, offering his hand out to Isak. “I’m Even, and I was hoping that you might be able to brew something for me?”

“That’s my job,” Isak confirms, taking the outreached hand. He’s hyper aware of the fact that his arms are suddenly very sweaty, and he smells like burnt hair. “What were you hoping for?”

Even presses his lips into a thin line, some of brightness fading from his eyes. “Well, that’s the thing. I’m not entirely sure you’ll be able to make what I’m looking for.”

Isak quirks a brow. As if he hadn’t already been invested enough into this customer, he’s also being given a challenge. He’s definitely intrigued. “Is it something illegal?”

“No,” Even says. The barest hint of a smile returns just long enough for him to add, “I have another guy for that.”

“As long as it’s not illegal, I should be able to come up with something,” Isak assures him with a smile of his own.

“I’ve never had a customer leave here unhappy,” he adds. Which is… a bit of a lie. There was the time Stacy Bates had demanded a potion to keep her makeup on permanently and he has used a few colorful words to deny her, but there’s no need to talk about that.

Even nods slowly. “I’m looking for something to help me with my episodes,” he says after a beat.

“Episodes,” Isak echoes, the phantom taste of bile at the back of his throat. There’s a memory pressing at his mind— _ cleanse yourself Isak, listen to Mamma, resist the sinful seduction of those demons, no son of mine _ —but he forces himself to stay focused on the case at hand. “Could you, uh. Elaborate?”

“I have bipolar disorder,” Even brings a hand up to rub at the back of his neck. “I’m not sure how familiar you are with it, but it can cause intense highs and lows. It kind of sucks, honestly.” A humorless laugh, and then, “I take medications for it, but they don’t always help. My therapist and I decided that trying a potion might be helpful.”

“Okay,” Isak says. The explanation does wonders for his nerves. Even’s situation is nothing like his mother’s. “I think I could come up with something. I’ve created potions to combat certain symptoms of other mental illnesses. I’ll need to do some research first, but… It should be fine.”

“That’s great,” Even says, gratitude seeping his words. “I don’t know much about potions or magic in general, really. I wasn’t sure if you would be able to help.”

“Magic has limits, but pushing them is fun,” Isak shrugs with one shoulder. 

“You said you’ve done things like this before?” Even asks tentatively. 

“I’ve had people come to me looking for something to help with their symptoms in the past,” Isak confirms. He studies Even, takes note of the glimmer of hope in his eyes, and adds, “I’m a potions master, not a miracle worker. Nothing I do is going to rid you of your bipolar.”

“I know that,” Even says, but the tone of his voice betrays him.

“However,” Isak says, “I do think you’ll find your life much more symptoms to be far more bearable with the aid of a potion. Unlike medications, a potion will adapt to you natural body chemistry.”

“That’s good,” Even says, though the words gather a small edge near the end like it’s a question.

“It’s definitely good,” Isak assures him. Even sends him a blinding grin in response that makes his knees wobble. 

“So.” He clears his throat and straightens his posture, all in an effort to keep up his professional facade. “Why don’t you elaborate more about your symptoms?”

“Right,” Even shifts on his feet. “Well. I told you I’m bipolar, and for me, that means I get these… episodes sometimes. Manic episodes. And then when they’re done, I crash.”

“Extreme highs and lows.” Isak summons his journal and a pen with a simple wave of his hand, and begins to scribble the details. 

“Yeah,” Even says. Then, seconds later, he blurts, “can you make them stop?”

Isak glances up. “I can’t guarantee anything, but I believe I can decrease the number of episodes you experience, and their severity. Results differ from case to case. That can be the trouble with healing magic; it’s rare that it’s exact.”

Even lets out a small sigh. “I understand that. I’m just… I want this to work. I’ve tried non-magical treatments, and they all have side effects that make me feel like shit.”

“That must be difficult.”

“You have no idea,” Even says blithely.

Isak’s grip on his pen tightens unintentionally. “I think I might.”

“Really?” Even sounds skeptical.”

There’s a tense moment of silence then, where Isak almost decides not to say anything at all. He hadn’t even meant to voice his previous words, but now they’re out there, and it’s too late to take them back. 

“My mother,” Isak begins at last. The words don’t sit right on his tongue—they feel foreign from disuse. “She’s had her own battles to face.”

“She’s bipolar?”

“No. Unofficially, she has schizophrenia.” Isak’s hands curl into fists by his sides. “She refuses any sort of treatment, won’t even go to an appointment with a psychiatrist for a diagnosis, so her symptoms are… intense.”

“Couldn’t you make her a potion to stop them, like you’re going to try to do for me?” Even wonders. From the look on his face, he hadn’t meant to actually voice the words at all, but they still hit Isak like a punch to the gut.

“Magic doesn’t work like that,” Isak says. He feels defensive, even if the inquiry was innocent. “I can’t just snap my fingers and fix a person. We’re not two-dimensional objects—we have souls, and minds, and too many working parts for that to work.”

He lets out a breath. “And besides, healing magic is finicky; it doesn’t work on a person who doesn’t want to get better, or rejects magic itself. You can’t force someone into it.”

“Oh,” Even says, voice small. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me.”

“Shit,” Isak rubs a hand over his face. When he looks up again, he’s met with an extremely guilty expression that makes his stomach twist. “No.  _ I’m _ sorry. I know these things because I’ve been around magic for most of my life, but it’s natural to be curious. You wouldn’t have known.”

Even looks like he wants to say something more then, but Isak doesn’t give him the chance. Instead, he quickly hits a few more words down into his journal, and promptly slams it shut.

“I think I have enough information to brew something up for you,” he says. “I’ll start working soon. Give me two weeks, and then stop by to pick it up.”

“That’s it?” Even blinks in surprise. “You don’t need to take my blood, or have me spit in a vial or something?”

“No,” Isak scrunches his nose up. “What do you think I am, some kind of voodoo weirdo? Please keep all bodily fluids to yourself.”

For the first time since their conversation began, a smile breaks out onto Even’s face. A dimple appears on his left cheek, and Isak feels like a twelve-year-old fangirl gawking at whatever heartthrob is at the top of the charts rug now.

“No promises,” Even winks. It takes a moment for the innuendo to sink in, but when it does, Isak can feel the heat flood up his neck and to the tips of his ears.

“Oh. Well. Uh—” Isak coughs, ducking his head down bashfully. He’s never been good at the whole  _ flirting  _ thing. “Anyways. You won’t need to pay until you pick up your potion, so you’re free to leave.”

“Are you kicking me out?” Even asks, clearly amused. 

“No. Yes. I mean,” Isak stumbles over his words. “I’ve been having cauldron issues today that I need to get resolved.”

“Cauldron issues.”

“That’s right.”

Their eyes meet then, and Isak’s breath hitches.

“Okay,” Even says, openly grinning. “That sounds pretty serious. I’ll leave you to it then.”

“Thanks,” Isak mumbles, face still aflame. Even chuckles quietly, nods once, and turns on his heel. He makes his way over to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob.

“See you in two weeks, Isak,” Even calls over his shoulder. Then, before Isak can say anything in response, he pushes open the door and walks outside.

Isak stands frozen in place, until he feels something small nudge against his leg. He glances down to find his familiar—a black kitten, who had just shown up in the store weeks back and refused to leave. The kitten only answers to Julian, though Isak would have much preferred a name with more substance, like Razor or Flex.

He crouched down, scooping Julian up into his arms. “That was Even,” he tells hims quietly, scratching the sweet spot just underneath his chin. “He was nice.”

Julian meows in response _ ,  _ though whether it’s in agreement or teasing, Isak isn’t sure.

—

Exactly one week later, a letter arrives in the post with an all too familiar address scrawled messily in the top left corner. He wishes that he could ignore it, wants nothing more than to toss it into the garbage and never give it a second thought, but he’s weak, so he can’t. Instead, he mutters a simple spell under his breath to cleanly open the envelope, and goes about reading the contents.

_ REPENT FOR YOUR SINS! For He Will Not deny you at the gates of heaven should you Free Your soul from the Fires Of hell.  _

The bottom half of the page is a mess of smeared ink, but he has no doubt that it’s another quote from the Bible. Those two lines, albeit short, are all that he needs to know that his mother isn’t in a good place. Both the random capitalization and religious rant are telltale signs that she’s experiencing more intense symptoms than usual.

He crumbles the paper up, tosses it into his fireplace, and watches it burn.

—

It probably says something about himself, he thinks, that he spends the rest of the evening pouring over medical journals and working out a potion to combat manic  depressive episodes.

—

As Isak had initially suspected, developing an appropriate potion recipe isn’t all that difficult. He uses the same base he’s used in the past for a client suffering from depression, and builds from there. It’s all very Healing Magic 101, and though his finicky cauldron makes actually  _ brewing it  _ a challenge, he manages.

The potion is ready by the end of the week, and he wastes no time in putting the call into Even. He can feel his heart begin to race at the mere thought of seeing him again, though he tries to write off any potential feelings. He’s excited to see if the potion will work, is all. Nothing more than that.

—except it’s a lot more than that, he realizes as Even walks into the shop on Wednesday morning.

Even’s wearing faded jeans and a gray sweatshirt, but somehow he makes the look work. He sends Isak a bright smile that takes his breath away, a dimple peeking out on his left cheek.

“Halla,” Even says. “It’s good to see you again.”

“You too,” Isak nods jerkily. 

Even hums quietly, looking prepared to say something more, before he suddenly pauses. He takes a sniff of the air, his nose scrunching up slightly, and then takes another, bigger sniff. 

“Do you smoke?” 

“What?”

“It smells like weed in here,” Even says. At first, Isak thinks he might be annoyed, but then he breaks out into a bemused smile. “Did I interrupt your break?”

It takes a minute for Isak to properly process the words, but when he does, his eyes widen. “Oh, fuck. No. It’s not weed.”

Even tilts his head. “It’s not?”

“It’s sage,” Isak explains quickly. “You know, like the plant?”

“You were smoking sage?” Even asks, sounding equal parts confused and concerned. 

“I wasn’t smoking sage, what the fuck? I was  _ burning _ it.”

“Burning it,” Even repeats, bewildered. 

“Yeah,” Isak says. He sometimes forgets that not everyone does the same quirky things as him. “It’s a way to cleanse bad shit out, basically. You burn it and walk around a room or area, and it just… purifies everything.”

“Is it magic?” 

“In a sense, I guess,” Isak says, offering a small shrug. “Anyone can burn sage, it’s not like brewing where you need at least need a spark to make it work, and the process is more spiritual than magical; but the sage itself does have a similar impact to magic.”

He pauses, and promptly realizes exactly how much he’s been rambling. “I’m sorry, fuck. I probably just bored you out of your mind.”

“You didn’t,” Even says, and he seems genuine. “I think it’s fascinating.”

Isak tries to imagine what it must be like not to feel the buzz of magic, and the thrum of energy in your fingertips. He’s never lived a life without magic, and he’s not quite sure how anyone could manage it. Even when he was too young to babble out spells or brew beginner potions, his natural spark manipulated his magic to help him out. 

He thinks—no, he  _ knows  _ that being without his magic would be like having a gaping hole in his chest.

“It’s a part of me,” Isak says at last. “I don’t know who I would be without my magic.”

“I’ve always wondered what it would be like,” Even says. “I had a classmate when I was younger who had magical abilities, and everyone thought they were the coolest.”

“Serr?” Isak blurts, not able to hide his surprise. His early years of school had been hell for him, all thanks to his magic. 

“Yeah,” Even nods. “I mean, who wouldn’t want to be friends with the kid who could change the color of your backpack or make the healthy foods taste like cupcakes at lunch?”

“More people than you would think,” Isak mutters under his breath, before clearing his throat. He’s way too fucking tired to start digging up old childhood trauma. In a louder voice, he says, “I have your potion, if you’re ready?”

Even visibly sobers, his eyes clouding with something that Isak tries not to dwell on. “I’m more than ready.”

“Alright then.” Isak rounds the counter, grabbing the bottle out from underneath it. “You’ll have to take two doses a day—once in the morning, and once in the evening—preferably with meals. The bottle is charmed to give you the appropriate amount with a sip, so you can take it straight from the bottle.”

“Okay,” Even says, his eyes wandering from the potion bottle to Isak’s face. “How long do you think it will take to kick in?”

“It’s hard to say. Everyone has a different reaction to magic,” Isak says. “No more than a week, but it could be an hour. If you feel like it’s not working after that, you can come back in and I’ll either revise the brew or give you a refund.”

Even exhales, and Isak can hear the breath tremble. “Thank you.”

With red cheeks, Isak mumbles the total. He takes the money from Even, ignores the way his stomach does a flip when the tips of their fingers brush, and then passes over the potion at last.

He watches Even go long after the door to the shop closes with a harsh thump.

—

That night, he dreams of Even. Of running his fingers through his wispy hair, and pressing his lips to the little freckles on his neck. Then, the heat between them becoming too much to handle. Skin on skin, everything building and building, until he feels nothing but pure bliss. 

When he wakes up the following morning, he has to cast three cleaning charms and take a cold shower before all evidence of his dream is gone. 

—

Even starts to come in on the sixth of every month, without fail. Each time, Isak has his potion waiting and a racing heart.

It feels juvenile to call his feelings toward Even a _ crush,  _ but he’s come to accept the fact that he become little more than a prepubescent schoolgirl whenever the man comes around. He’s professional, of course—but then Even smiles, and his knees feel all wobbly, and it’s all too much.

So he has a crush on Even. A real, undeniable, butterflies-in-his-stomach crush.

An unrequited crush, no doubt.

Isak hates everything.

—

“Do you ever wish that you didn’t have magic?” Even asks, one hot summer afternoon. He’s been helping Isak gather the ingredients for a new brew together, after claiming that Isak’s shop was the only cool place in Norway. (Thank you, chilling charms.)

“I’ve never thought about it,” Isak says honestly. “I learned spells before I learned to read. I was raised on magic. I don’t know anything else.”

“Do you like it?”

“I guess?” Isak shakes his head slightly. “I don’t think of myself and magic as mutually exclusive. It’s like—its a part of me. Maybe I can ignore it sometimes, but it’s never really gone.”

Even makes a soft, thoughtful noise. “You could always try living without it now.”

“I can’t,” Isak says without further explanation. He means it more than he could ever begin to describe. 

“Like my bipolar,” Even acknowledges. 

“Yeah. Like that.”

Silence. Then, “I wouldn’t want to live without my bipolar, either.”

“You wouldn’t?”

“No,” Even says firmly. “I enjoy my life without the symptoms, obviously—that’s why I take the potions—but I think having a mental illness has made me who I am in a way. It’s helped me become a more understanding person.”

“Did you always feel that way?” Isak asks.

“No,” Even snorts quietly. “I spent a long time hoping one day I would just wake up and be normal. But then I realized that no one is really normal. We live in a world with magic, for fucks sake.”

Isak’s lips quirk. Even matches his expression with a smile of his own.

—

They develop an unspoken language over time. He learns to gauge Even’s mood with a glance—from the way he hunches in on himself and keeps his eyes downcast on the bad days, to the way he taps his fingers endlessly when he’s in a really good mood.

Even starts coming around more and more, even when he’s not due to pickup an order. And Isak finds himself anticipating his appearance everytime the door to his shop opens up.

It’s strange, because Isak’s never been the sort of person who appreciates human company. He’ll take staying in the comfort of his own space Julian and even his obnoxious cauldron over going out… clubbing, or whatever it is people his age do. But it’s different with Even.

So they’re friends.  _ Friends.  _ Best buds. 

Except he doesn’t think he imagines Even’s gaze flicking to his lips every so often, or the flirtatious tone that pops out here and there. Maybe it’s just his personality; but a small, hopeful part of Isak wonders about the possibilities.

—

“I have a question for you.”

Isak sends Even a suspicious look. All of Even’s questions tend to be connected to shitty stereotypes, and though he knows they stem from an innocent place, it’s still annoying. “If it’s another question related to Sabrina the Teenage Witch—”

“It’s not,” Even says quickly. “It’s something else.”

For a moment, Isak only continues to stare at Even. He’s sitting comfortably on the floor criss-cross-applesauce style, with Julian sleeping contently in his lap. The sight admittedly softens him.

Sighing, he nods. “Okay. Ask.”

“Do you celebrate Halloween?”

Isak immediately rolls his eyes. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.” Even scratches Julian’s chin gently, earning a soft purr in return.

“I went trick-or-treating once when I was younger.” Isak says, tracing his finger along the worn pages of his spell book. The text is Latin, which is enough of a headache to read without thinking about his least favorite holiday. “I hated it.”

“You hated getting free candy?”

“I hated seeing a bunch of brats dressed up as witches and fucking Harry Potter, making fun of magic.” Isak glances up. “It’s derogatory.”

“Oh.” Even pauses. “People can be assholes.”

“Yeah, they can,” Isak agrees.

“So does this mean that if I asked you to a Halloween party, you’d say no?”

Isak freezes. “What?”

“My friends are throwing a party,” Even explains. He bites his lip for a moment, the way he only does when he’s feeling especially nervous about something. “It’s a Halloween party—nothing big, but still… a party. And I thought you might want to go with me.”

“You want me to go with you to a party?”

“Yes?” Even clears his throat. “I mean. Yes. If you want to.”

For a long moment, Isak can do nothing but openly stare at Even. It seems too good to be true, like an illusion that’s going to crumble if he’s not careful.

“As friends?” He asks eventually.

“Or as a date,” Even says quickly. “Whatever.”

Subtly, Isak pinches his forearm. There’s a small surge of pain in response, which is enough to confirm that this isn’t a dream, but it still doesn’t feel real.

“You want to go on a date with me?” Isak asks, just to be sure.

Even lets out a quiet laugh, both nervous and amused. “Yeah, Isak. I want to go on a date with you.”

“Okay,” Isak exhales. “That sounds like fun.”

“Really?” Even breaks out into a grin. “I’m really glad you said yes. My friends have been dying to meet you, and it’ll be nice to spend time with you outside of these four walls.”

“I like these four walls,” Isak says with faux offense.

“They’re very nice walls, but there’s a world beyond them too. One that I’d like to explore with you.”

Isak’s heart skips a beat, and he can’t help but wonder if this is what true love feels like.

—

When Even comes to pick him up on Halloween, he’s surprised to find Isak waiting for him in costume. 

“What are you meant to be?” Isak asks, taking in the long white hair and beard Even was wearing.

“I’m God. And what are you?”

Isak can’t help but let out a laugh. Without even trying, they perfectly coordinated their costumes. “I’m an angel.”

With a laugh of his own, Even offers out his hand to Isak. Without a moment of hesitation, Isak takes it, allowing his fingers to intertwine with Even’s for the very first to,e.

There’s some things in the world that even magic can’t explain, and the rush of electricity they both feel in that moment is one of them. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> ,,,, and they live happily ever after, because i can do nothing but give isak and even the happy ending they deserve.
> 
> feedback is always appreciated :)


End file.
